


Turn Around and Face Your Fate

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [17]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Assault, Attempted Murder, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Blood, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Genderbending, Implied Sexual Content, Knives, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Touching, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Torture, Rule 63, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Threats, Stabbing, Strangulation, attempted hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 11: Raoul faces her fate. Christine faces a choice. And Erik faces himself.(Or The Final Lair, Pt. 2)
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 21
Kudos: 34





	Turn Around and Face Your Fate

**Author's Note:**

> The tags and the rating warn, but this will be the darkest and most violent chapter of the fic for sure. Which I'm sure you were all expecting but just wanted to make sure. I have expanded on what happens in musical canon, as well, so expect something a bit longer!
> 
> If you're looking for Erik Creepiness Level, my favorite and inspiration for Erik generally is Hugh Panaro. There are clips on YouTube if you haven't heard him before!

Shock rushes through Raoul’s blood. Terror. Fear that sucks the breath from her lungs.

She can’t move. She can’t get a deep breath. She can’t get a deep _breath_. The air catches in her chest, leaving sharp, stabbing pangs behind.

At the beginning of all of this, she swore she would never fear a man pretending to be a ghost.

But she does. She really does. She _should_. And maybe that’s what it means to be a hero. To keep going despite your fear. To admit it out loud to the world and go forward, anyway.

“Oh god,” she whispers, to no one but herself, the words soft against the chaos all around her. “Oh my god.”

Burnt, tattered memories swim across her vision. Walking into this opera house months ago with Philippe at her side. The joy swelling in her chest when she saw Christine’s name in the program. The astonishing sound of Christine’s voice soaring out over the crowd. The taste of wine on her lips and the soft feel of the plush red seats beneath her hand, every impossible thing feeling possible as the lights fell over the theater, and Christine stepped onto the stage to change Raoul’s world.

It felt so much like a story. Their own private fairytale in the face of the world’s _no_.

And now, it’s just a ghost story. A horror tale. Every plan, every preparation, has slipped through her fingers.

The acrid sent of smoke draws her back to the present. To the fact that her brother is not here, that he’s at home with a badly broken arm, and she’s alone in this box.

There’s a scream. And then another and then another and then _another_ , like a great chorus of banshees echoing through the theater, and it curdles the blood in Raoul’s veins.

Someone’s dead. Someone _must_ be dead.

She’s going to vomit. She’s going to _vomit_.

No, she really is.

She bends over in the box and she’s barely eaten all day but she dry heaves and swallows back the bile crawling up her throat, images of that monster’s hands running up and down Christine’s body smeared across her mind like splotches of permanent ink.

She has to go. He took Christine she has to _go_.

She seizes the sword cane and rushes down from the box and onto the stage, seeing the reason for the bloodcurdling scream she heard a moment ago.

A stagehand, dead behind the curtain with his throat slashed, and Piangi with a terrible purple bruise around his neck but still breathing, a neatly fashioned noose resting beside him. Carlotta is sobbing and saying his name over and over again.

_Piangi. Piangi. Piangi my love._

Raoul wants to help but there’s a dozen company members there already, one of them dashing off for a doctor. She glances at the noose, a shiver running up her spine.

They’ve managed to put the fire out, but an entire row of seats is charred, smoke from the powder flasks and the fire hanging in the air as the audience shouts and half-tramples each other in their efforts to get out.

The chandelier hangs above it all, ominous and threatening. Raoul wonders if she’ll ever be able to look at a chandelier the same way again, because even the one above their dining room table at home sometimes make her shudder, however small in comparison to this one.

Andre and Firmin are there, then, Andre’s hand on her shoulder.

“Where did he go?” Raoul asks, and she knows the words coming out of her mouth are frantic, half-hysterical, and not the calm they’re used to from her, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if they think her a silly woman. “Did you see where they went?”

“No,” Andre says, and his hands are shaking and even Firmin puts a hand on Raoul’s back, looking deeply sorry. “I didn’t see, I don’t know, I…”

“Meg!” Raoul shouts upon spotting the ballerina, sliding out from beneath Andre and Firmin’s hands. “Meg did you see where they went?”

Meg runs up, tears streaming down her face as she takes Raoul’s hand. “I don’t know. It has to be the dressing room, it must…how did we not see this coming?”

Raoul shakes her head, trying to block out the shouts of the audience and the sobs of all the company members on stage and the screeching demands of her own mind.

_Get to Christine._

“I don’t know,” Raoul whispers, and there’s rage in her blood, hot, boiling, intoxicating rage. She’s drunk on it and she needs to see past it to think. “We should have.”

She’s about to make her way backstage toward the dressing room because it’s all she has, it’s the only way she knows, until she hears a voice behind her.

“Come with me, Mademoiselle de Chagny.”

Madame Giry.

Raoul turns around, Meg’s hand still in hers, and asks the question she’s been thinking for months.

“Can I trust you?”

“You must,” Madame Giry answers, and she softens when she looks at her daughter. “Meg, stay here.”

“No,” Meg says with great emotion, and more force than Raoul expected. “Maman, Christine is my dearest friend.” She presses Raoul’s hand tight. “And Raoul, too.”

“Meg…” Raoul speaks softly, trying to keep her tears back. “Christine would want you safe here, and I don’t want to have you in danger. Please, wait for us to come back up. I swear we’ll come back up.”

She doesn’t know if she’s telling the truth, but she hopes it’s the truth, and that has to be enough, right now. She wants Meg, who has been such a good friend to them, to believe it, to hold onto it while she waits. She doesn’t even know if _they_ will come back, but she’s determined to get Christine out of here. She _has_ to.

“Raoul…” Meg’s voice breaks, and Raoul pulls her into a quick, tight embrace before following Madame Giry.

They go down the hallway and into Christine’s dressing room, the dressing room where they met again, the dressing room where they fell in love and a spark of magic was born, but it’s dark and terrible now, the glass of the mirror pushed aside, leading to a dank stone hallway.

“Keep your hand at the level of your eye,” Madame Giry says as they walk and they walk and they walk, leaving the hallway behind and going _down down down_ stone steps. “Or he’ll have that rope around your neck before you even know what’s happening. First Buquet, and now almost Piangi, if that poor stagehand hadn’t stepped in.”

“Will Piangi make it?” Raoul asks, and it sounds a bit like _will I make it?_

Madame Giry comes to a halt midway down the last set of stairs, a lake lying beyond. “I don’t know.” She points toward the strange, indoor body of water in question. “He lives just beyond the lake. This is as far as I dare go.”

Raoul nods, because there’s nothing more to say and she needs to go, now. Somewhere far off in the distance, she thinks she hears shouts of _track down that murderer!_

A mob is the last thing she needs.

“Thank you, Madame Giry.”

She turns to go, but Madame Giry’s hand curls around her arm, keeping her back just a moment.

“I told Christine not to fall in love with you,” Madame Giry says, and there’s grief in her eyes. Regret. “I encouraged those lessons with the ghost. And I’m sorry for both.”

“Thank you,” Raoul repeats, a little dumbfounded, and Madame Giry releases her, disappearing back up the stairs.

Raoul goes down them instead, reaching the edge of the lake. There’s no boat, no way for her to cross.

She’ll just have to swim.

She tosses off her suit jacket and undoes her waistcoat, throwing them both on the ground before rolling up the sleeves of her shirt.

The trousers were the right choice.

She takes the pins out of her hair none-too-gently, frustrated when they snag on the ends. She puts them in her pocket before quickly braiding her hair back and tying the end with a little piece of cloth she took off her vanity at the last moment.

“All right,” she mutters to herself. “All right.”

She can do this. Yes. She can go get back the woman she loves and Christine is strong and she can hold until then and…

Her hands shake a little as she holds onto the sword cane and steps into lake. The murky, silver-blue water is cold as she wades in, and at first she can walk along with it more or less at her waist.

After that, it goes deeper.

It’s at her neck when she realizes that swimming will be faster than trying to wade along in this agonizingly slow manner—because she doesn’t have time to waste. She doesn’t think too much about what’s in the water, awkwardly swimming along while trying to keep her face out the the strange lake and keep hold of her sword cane.

People say that your life flashes before your eyes when you confront death, but for her it’s more like painted memories. Sitting on her father’s lap as a very little girl, and thinking he looked sad. Standing at his casket years later, feeling as if she never really knew him. Philippe chasing her across the grass on the grounds of their family home, laughing beneath the sunshine. Juliette brushing her hair in the evening, telling her stories about the mother she never met. Sitting on the sofa at fourteen, crying and telling Philippe that she felt things for other girls, and the way he put a hand on her shoulder, never judging her like most men certainly would.

She refuses to think of Eloise, but her heart breaks at the thought that she might never see Philippe and Juliette again. That she might not see Celine’s little girl. That she might not get to explore Monmartre with Christine, that they might not ever return to the sea where all of this began.

But maybe they will. Maybe they will.

A voice resounds in her head. A merry, gentle voice with a Swedish accent that still held so much life even as he lay dying.

 _Raoul my dear girl_ , _I am so pleased Christine’s scarf blew away that day, because I can’t imagine our lives without knowing you. I want you to take my old violin, and play it after I’m gone. Say you will?_

 _I will,_ Raoul answered, fifteen and smitten with Gustave’s daughter _. I promise you I will_.

When she thinks back on it now, she feels sure Gustave knew. She feels sure he might have known from the moment she came through the door of their little cottage at nine-years-old, sopping wet from diving into the waves.

She keeps swimming.

Pieces fall out of the hastily done braid from all the exertion, and finally after several minutes the still, silent water grows shallower. There’s a little dock up ahead, a small black boat tied to it. There’s a portcullis, too. And candles. Dozens of them lighting up the darkness like some kind of sad replacement for the sun. Finally the lake’s nothing more than puddles of water at her feet, but her remaining clothes are drenched. Heavy. Every part of her is cold and wet and dripping.

Near the little dock she notices a narrow hallway—a different route, perhaps? A longer one, she thinks.

She runs a hand across her face, getting the water out of her eyes and smearing whatever lipstick was left, her hair hanging wet and dripping down her back.

She’s set to meet a murderer on the other side, but other than that, she’s honestly not sure what to expect, other than something horrible.

She won’t underestimate the ghost, this time.

She’s steps away from the portcullis when she hears him. When she hears that voice.

“Mademoiselle de Chagny!” he shouts, sounding _giddy_. “You’ve arrived, what an unparalleled delight! I was beginning to wonder if you might prove too much a coward.” He takes Christine by the wrist, yanking her forward and putting an arm around her shoulders, preventing her from moving forward. “Look, my dear! We have a guest.”

“Raoul!”

Her name on Christine’s lips, the desperate way she says it, makes tears brim in Raoul’s eyes.

She hates this man. She _hates_ him. She wanted to feel for him, but she doesn’t know if she can, she doesn’t know if it’s in her, anymore. She blinks more water out of her eyes, realizing, with a jolt, that Christine's wearing a wedding dress. 

How...when did she get into a wedding dress? And why? How?

She feels sick again.

He thinks this is a _wedding_.

She searches around the strange cavern, seeing an organ and a bed and a strange little cell—that makes a shiver run down her spine—as well as a chair that looks more like a throne.

“I did hope you would come,” the ghost says, a malicious chuckle on his breath. “You’ve simply made my night, mademoiselle. I can’t tell you how much.”

Raoul reaches the portcullis, wrapping her free hand around the bar, her fingers curling around tight. “Let her go.”

The three words ring in the quiet cavern, and for a moment, they’re the only sound at all.

That is, until the ghost starts laughing.

He laughs. And he laughs. And he _laughs_ , still keeping his arm around Christine’s shoulders. The mask has drawn him out, made him lose all that cruel, detached coolness Raoul’s seen before. Even in his rage there was a distance. A calculation.

Now, he’s just unhinged.

The deformity is shocking, like several red, angry scars and mottled skin all gathered together on one side of his face, and she’s never really pondered what it might look like under the mask. She has no doubt people were horrible to him over it.

“I don’t think so, mademoiselle,” the ghost replies, drawing her from her contemplation. “I went through rather a lot of trouble to bring her here, you may have noticed.”

One of the ghost’s arms remains around Christine's shoulders, but his other hand creeps upward, resting lightly against her neck. Raoul's not even sure he realizes what he's doing, but it's making her nervous. 

When Christine tries tugging away again, the hand tightens. 

"Release her!" Raoul cries out, reaching forward even if she can't go anywhere. "Do what you like with me, but I beg of you sir, free her." 

The hand tightens again, and Erik looks over at Christine, jumping when he realizes he's nearly choking her, but he still keeps her pressed close against his side. He looks back at Raoul, a ripple of surprise passing across his face before he blinks it away.

“I told you she would beg me,” he says, but there’s something odd in his voice, something off.

Christine narrows her eyes even though she’s trapped, even though she’s shaking, and Raoul loves her. She loves her more than anything in the world. She opens her mouth to protest, but the ghost speaks over her.

"Your lover makes quite the passionate plea," he says conversationally. "If I might deign to call her such." 

"You don't have to be cruel," Raoul shoots back, more quietly this time, not wanting the hand to tighten around Christine's neck again. 

"The world has been cruel to me!" Erik shouts, each word louder than the next. “No ounce of compassion, girl. Not once. Lecturing about _human kindness_ is useless.”

Raoul pauses, searching her mind for something, anything, that might ease the situation rather than escalate it, even if the larger part of her _wants_ to escalate, to make this murderous, abusive wretch fall flat to the ground. She wants to point out that she didn’t kill him, in the graveyard, that she only injured him to run, but she doubts that will help.

"I know what it's like, to be different," she says instead, keeping her voice even, and Christine gives a little gasp. "To have some people in the world hate you for it." 

There's a long, treacherous pause, and for a moment Raoul thinks she's gotten somewhere. That is, until Erik laughs a second time, a terrible, bitter, sound. 

"You don't know a thing about me, or what it's like to be me, with your pretty face and your money," Erik spits. "You can hide your deviance, I can't. Yours could be invisible, if you wanted it to be. You choose to flaunt it." 

Raoul swallows back the hot rage threatening to melt her insides, forcing herself to be vulnerable in front of this man who might well try and kill her. "I love her. Does that mean nothing to you?"

Erik stares her down, with a cold hard glint. "No." 

"Please, Raoul." Christine shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "My love, you should go. Just go.”

The ghost growls when he hears Christine use the words _my love_ with someone other than him, but Christine doesn’t seem to care, anymore.

Raoul grasps the bars of the grate. If kindness won't work, she'll just go back to the fire inside her. She thinks of Don Juan and the way the ghost touched Christine, his hand roaming up her thigh. Over her chest. Everywhere. She thinks of the words she heard him utter, even if if they were too soft for most to hear.

_Kiss me._

A demand, as opposed to her own gentle question on the rooftop. The ghost stole the words of love they shared before their lips ever met, twisting them up for his own means, and Raoul hates him for it. 

"Let me see her, you wretch." 

Erik grins. “Be my guest, mademoiselle. But I have some…stipulations first.”

Raoul’s stomach sinks. It _plummets_. “What?”

“Toss that…” Erik gestures at the sword cane. “Away. Into the lake where you can’t reach it. Can’t have you running me through, now can we?”

“Raoul…” Christine protests, her voice gone sharp. “No.”

Raoul meets her eyes. “I have to, Christine, I can’t just…

Erik tightens his grip around Christine’s shoulders, drawing out a gasp. “Did I say you could speak to each other? That thing barely did you any good in the graveyard, besides. It’s a silly weapon.”

“It made you bleed, didn’t it?”

“I said _now_ , you stupid girl, or I’m not opening the portcullis and you can starve to death out there for all I care.”

Raoul wants to say _there might be a mob coming_ , but she keeps that to herself, because she need not give that away, and she also doesn’t hear them yet. Perhaps they aren’t coming after all, or perhaps the lake held them up. She isn’t sure. She can’t wait on them, in any case, both because she doesn’t know what the ghost will do in the interim, and because she’s not sure if an angry mob bent on revenge will be a helpful ally—most people in the opera know they aren’t on the ghost’s side, but she can’t trust what might happen in an angry crowd.

They might make the ghost feels so threatened that he hurts Christine.

She gives the sword cane one glance, thinking she must have enacted some curse upon herself as far as these things are concerned. Her hand trembles as she tosses it far back behind her, knowing full well what it means.

She’s going in with nothing.

Christine claps a hand over her mouth, holding back a sob just as the ghost moves his arm from around her shoulders, sliding his hand down to grasp her wrist.

“Very good,” he says. “Christine my dear, I need you to be quiet a while and think about your vows while de Chagny and I…talk. As I’m a kind fiancé, I’ll allow you a farewell, of course. But I can’t have you trying to get out.”

Raoul doesn’t realize what he means by that until it’s already happening. Until the ghost is dragging Christine by the wrist toward the little cell cut out of the stone not far away from the organ, and also near a…

God is that a _doll_ that looks like Christine?

She wants to throw up again.

“Let me go!” Christine screams, planting her feet on the ground and refusing to move, but the ghost is much, much taller, much stronger, and sweeps Christine into a bridal carry without much effort.

“Stop!” Raoul shouts. “Stop it!”

Christine screams again as the ghost puts her in the cell and locks the door, a flash of guilt passing across his face before it’s gone again.

Raoul assumed she was walking into her own attempted murder, but now, she knows it for sure. She has to keep an eye out for the rope, the famed lasso, and perhaps some kind of knife, too. She thinks of Juliette’s promise, her promise to take care of Christine and she wishes she’d drafted a will, she wishes…her money will go back to her siblings, that’s what it says now, and they’ll leave some to Christine, she’s sure they will and….

As she holds Christine’s gaze through the two sets of bars, she knows Christine is just as determined to get _her_ out of here, which is both a comfort and a terror, all at once.

The ghost spins around toward Raoul, a smirk on his face as he smooths back his wild hair, a shocking departure from the smoothness of the what must have been a wig. He walks over toward the lever that must lift the gate, giving it a hard, pointed tug. There’s a mirror off to the side of the portcullis, she realizes. An old, ornate mirror, slightly tucked away, perhaps, so the ghost doesn’t have to look in it without his mask on.

“Welcome, mademoiselle!” he exclaims, that smirk turning into a grin as the portcullis lifts just enough for Raoul to slide beneath. “You arrived quite quickly, I have to say. Did you honestly think I would harm Christine?”

Raoul looks quickly behind her as the portcullis clangs shut with a sense of deep, dark finality. She stands still, watching, waiting for what the ghost will do next.

He takes a step forward.

Raoul steps back.

“That’s not an insane thing to think, is it sir?” she asks. “For instance, I’d like to know just how you put her in the wedding dress she’s wearing. By force, I imagine?”

“It’s your sins we’re here to discuss, Mademoiselle de Chagny,” the ghost answers, ignoring the question. His voice is oddly smooth again, like he’s calming himself down, like he’s trying to push something away. Some feeling. “Christine is a victim of your wrongdoing, after all. But do go say hello, by all means. I’m merciful enough to grant you that.”

He falls silent then, making a show of walking to the chair that’s more like a throne and tossing himself into it, giving Raoul a little wave as she watches.

What _is_ his plan?

Raoul doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, but she does have to get to Christine, whatever happens. She feels for the hair pins still in her pocket, wondering if one might serve as a tool to unlock the door.

It’s all they’ve got.

She runs across the lair and immediately takes Christine’s hand through the bars, slipping a pin into her palm with a meaningful look.

“Darling,” Raoul whispers, her voice cut through with tears. “My darling…” She takes Christine’s other hand, pressing kisses to her fingertips. “Are you all right?”

“Raoul,” Christine breathes. “Please go, you need to go.”

“No.” Raoul shakes her head, looking around behind her for the ghost in his chair.

He’s gone.

“He’ll kill you, Raoul,” Christine insists. “He’ll…”

A voice cuts her off. A disembodied voice.

_I’m here._

This lair isn’t that large where did he _go_?

“I’ll find a way out,” Christine continues, holding tighter to Raoul’s hands. “Or I won’t, but it’s not worth…”

_I’m here._

The voice is closer.

“Let me try a pin but keep that one in case…” Raoul tries, and the voice rings out closer.

_I’m here._

She pulls another pin out of her pocket, but as soon as it’s in the lock there’s a footstep behind her and Christine’s screaming her name.

_Raoul!_

She spins around and the ghost is right _there_ , suddenly, a noose in his hand. Raoul catches it before he can throw it around her neck, and he looks shocked when she shoves him away for good measure. He doesn’t fall but it’s a close thing, and it’s the first time he’s ever seemed clumsy.

“Hand at the level of my eyes, isn’t that right?” Raoul shouts. “I’ve been attacked from behind before, monsieur. I listen for every sound in the dark when I’m alone because I’m a woman in a world of men who think they can do what they will with me. If you want to get that noose around my neck, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Rage flickers in the ghost’s eyes, snuffing out the hint of guilt Raoul saw earlier like it was nothing more than a weak, flickering candle, and there’s nothing there, _nothing_ but a monster.

The man is gone.

He runs toward her.

Christine screams. She screams like Raoul’s never heard before. There’s more than fear in it. There’s a great and terrible _grief_ , as if everything she’s felt since the day her father died is pouring out all at once.

She has to try and save herself. She has to try and stay alive so that Christine doesn’t lose someone else.

The ghost swings toward her stomach and she blocks the blow, but she blocks the blow with her forearm, which throbs as his fist makes contact with that, instead. She’s so distracted by the pain that she can’t block the next swing, which lands hard on her cheek, and she barely keeps upright as she inadvertently bites down on her tongue.

“Stop, Erik!” Christine shouts. “Stop it, please! I’ll do anything, just stop!”

The ghost doesn’t hear her, and the only thing Raoul hears is the jangling of the cell door as Christine tries getting it open. Erik’s too fixated on her to pay attention, and Raoul takes advantage of that by backing away toward the other end of the lair, her cheek absolutely throbbing like it might be on fire. Like something might be broken, though a quick run of her tongue across her back teeth find them still there. She tastes blood, spitting some of it out on the ground at her feet. She shakes the arm she used to block the first blow, which proves to be a bad choice. It doesn’t feel broken, but it _hurts_.

He knows how and where to hit, it seems.

“Where’s your fine carriage now, mademoiselle?” the ghost asks, walking slowly up to her. “Where’s your silly sword?” He pauses, and there’s that smirk again, that wildness in his eyes. “Where’s your precious older brother to protect you?”

Raoul’s mind goes blank.

She rushes forward and she hears Christine scream her name and she shoves the opera ghost over, hard, until he’s flat on his back. She spins around when she hears the door to the cell creak open, but before she can step forward, before she can think, there’s a hand scrabbling at her trousers and pulling her down. She hits the ground hard, landing on her shoulder, and the ghost turns her over roughly, pinning one of her wrists. He slides between her knees, and she’s about to use her free hand to slap him, but then he’s pulling out a jack-knife from his pocket, the knife he must have used to kill the stagehand, and flicking it open.

“Not my weapon of choice,” he says, his eyes glinting with hatred. “But useful enough for a harlot.” He clicks his tongue. “Look at you, making me put my hands to a woman. The violence is untoward, but you really should have listened to me and stayed away from Christine.”

Christine herself rushes over, but before she can lay hands on the ghost to pull him away, he makes the knife known to her by placing it against Raoul’s neck.

“One more move, my dear,” he continues, softening his voice and pressing down hard enough that it draws out a dribble of blood, the edge sharp against Raoul’s skin. “And she’ll be dead right now. There won’t be a choice.”

A choice? What choice? Not that Raoul’s opposed to a chance to _not_ die right now, but why is there one at all?

The ghost turns his attention back to her and she starts shaking, she can’t help it, and she has to…she has to get Christine out of here but she can’t…

The ghost moves the knife from Raoul’s neck and runs the tip down the back of her cheek near her ear, just enough to make it bleed ever so lightly. “I do hope that doesn’t scar your pretty face. What else will you use to seduce unsuspecting women, after all? I’m sure no man would have you, at this rate.” He takes stock of their position with a smirk, and Raoul’s never felt more vulnerable to attack than she does right now. “Don’t worry, mademoiselle, you aren’t my sort.”

A hollow reassurance, given that assault often arises out of a desire for power rather than attraction, but that’s never been what she’s feared for herself, from this man.

She’s feared it for Christine, because there’s a fine line between an unwanted seduction, and an attack.

Raoul’s blood runs hot. The ghost considers himself a Don Juan and not a degenerate, but to her, they’re the same thing. There are many reasons why she can’t let Christine stay here, and this is one of the most urgent. Perhaps the ghost doesn’t see what he did on that stage, Don Juan Triumphant itself, as edging closer and closer and closer to _that_. Perhaps he doesn’t see it now, considering himself a gentleman, somehow. He’s certainly tried long enough to make Christine return the sentiments. But if he grew angry enough and Christine said no?

Raoul worries for the result of that.

“Erik,” Christine says sharply, standing just a half-foot away and clearly afraid to come closer because of the knife. “I wasn’t unsuspecting. Please, let her go.”

“You do keep surprising me, mademoiselle, I admit.” The ghost ignores Christine, too interested in Raoul shaking. “Oh, are you _frightened_? I worked for the Shah of Persia briefly as a young man, you know, before I ended up in a travelling fair. I built torture chambers. Assassinated people. You’re courageous, I’ll give you that, but you ought to keep your mouth shut, I should think. You thought because you managed to win a swordfight that I didn’t know how to take a life unless I had a rope in my hand? Think again.”

Christine steps closer, but the moment her hand goes for her teacher’s shoulder, the knife goes back to Raoul’s throat.

“What did I say, Christine?” he asks, and there’s something else in his eyes, now, something guilty again, but it’s gone in an instant. “This woman has cast a spell over you. Tricked you. That ends tonight, and I will make you see her for the liar she is.”

The ghost shifts as he moves the blade away from her throat, and Raoul takes the only chance she has, moving one knee over toward his stomach and ramming it forward in one swift movement. She can’t get terribly good purchase, but it’s enough to get him off her. He coughs and an angry, whispered _dammit_ escapes his lips. She starts getting to her feet, but just as she does, before she can even stand up straight, the ghost swings forward with the small knife. The blade swipes across the center of her upper abdomen before running across the top of one set of ribs, and she bites her lip as she cries out in pain and surprise. 

Blood seeps through her white shirt immediately, and Christine’s sobbing and rushing over toward her but the ghost shouts _stay back, Christine,_ and the wound can’t be that deep, can it? No, not with that small knife, but what does she know about knives, really? She’s only grateful it was a swipe rather than a stab. It stings. It hurts, but while she’s bleeding it’s not profuse, so she hopes it was a flesh wound, more than anything.

She stumbles.

She stumbles and then the ghost swings his leg, kicking her feet right out from under her.

Christine _screams_. She screams and she runs up to them, but the ghost pushes her away, though with far less violence than anything else he’s done.

Raoul lands hard on her back, her ankle twisting in a sudden, painful way, and she’s certain she heard it pop. Crack. Something. He takes her collar tight in his hand and he drags her across the ground toward the portcullis, closing the knife as they go and putting it back in his pocket. Her whole body throbs and she can’t stop him as he hoists her up by the back of her shirt until she’s standing again, pushing one of her wrists up against the cold metal gate and pinning her in place with his body weight as he pulls out a length of rope from another pocket. He ties it tight around one wrist, and Raoul tries to kick out but his feet are placed on the inside of both of hers, and her ankle really hurts now, it hurts to stand on it, but she doesn’t have a choice.

Oh god. Oh god, she _is_ going to die here, isn’t she? She’s going to die and she didn’t even get Christine out, and she has to beg this man to let her go, she has to.

 _Don’t panic_ , she tells herself. _Don’t panic._

“Please release her,” Raoul says, helpless as he secures her other wrist against the portcullis. “Please just let her go. I’ll do anything if you just do that.”

That same surprise from earlier flashes across his face, but he keeps busy, taking more rope and binding her ankles to the portcullis as well, one after the other. She winces when he touches the one that popped, but she can’t stop him.

“Erik stop, please stop!” Christine cries out, running up and coming to a halt just a few feet away. There’s such a strange dissonance in seeing her in a wedding dress in this moment, and Raoul thinks that if she survives this, she’ll never forget it.

The ghost spins around on his heel, and this stops Christine from moving forward.

“Give me just a moment, Christine,” he says in an almost tender voice, but there’s something condescending about it, too. He faces Raoul again, taking her chin in his hand. “Now.” He leans in close, whispering in Raoul’s ear. “Tell me, what did it feel like? To see me on that stage with Christine?”

Raoul doesn’t answer.

Erik grasps her chin harder. “Answer me, girl.”

“I think you wrote an entire opera,” Raoul growls. “About attempting to take something that wasn’t being offered to you freely. What you were doing to her on that stage was not right. She told you no, already, but you didn’t bother to listen.”

“Ah, but you thought what you were doing was right, or so you believe?” Erik asks, deep jealousy in his voice, and rage, too, rage like he thinks he’s protecting Christine from Raoul. “You defiled her.” He seizes Raoul’s collar, holding the ruined fabric tight between his fingers. “Luring her to your bed with promises you won’t keep. I may have this face, but at least she can marry me.”

Those words sear Raoul’s soul. They hurt and she’s _furious_. She shouldn’t say anything she knows she shouldn’t, but she does, anyway.

“I _love_ her,” she says. “Whatever the law says. Whatever society says. Whatever God himself might say. I don’t need a legality for that to be true.”

Erik releases Raoul’s chin, lightly brushing his fingers across her collarbone before running the back of his hand up her neck. “Is this what you did?” he whispers, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “To seduce her? To trap her under your spell? Those soft touches in just the right places to pique her curiosity?”

Memories of Don Juan spill into Raoul’s head. The way he touched Christine. The way Christine was forced to touch him. She felt so helpless, then, watching this man put his hands all over the woman she loves. Unwanted, demanding hands. It wasn’t even jealousy—it was disgust at this man making Christine an unwilling participant in his play at seduction. It was shame, that she couldn’t stop it. That she didn’t see it coming.

The entirety of what she witnessed on that stage was nothing more than a man’s fantasy, and he _wants_ nothing more than a pliant doll. Hence the doll in the corner, she supposes. Hence the picture-perfect white wedding dress and the veil on Christine’s head. Both symbols of things Raoul can never access.

“Stop touching me,” Raoul seethes, tears of pain brimming in her eyes and she hates it she hates it she _hates_ it. Her face aches from the blow and the way he ran his knife down her cheek, and there’s the faint taste of blood in her mouth. Her shoulder hurts from crashing to the hard stone. The wound on her stomach stings like hell, and it’s still bleeding, for certain.

The ghost puts his knee between her legs, pushing her against the portcullis with his weight again, her sore back throbbing.

Christine screams _stop_ in a terrible, high-pitched way, the sound echoing through the lair with a soprano’s power. Raoul shuts her eyes, trying to think of something else, something that isn’t this man’s breath on her neck. A memory drops into her mind, a memory of that night in the little flat when she kissed and kissed and kissed Christine after their first time together, and the way Christine’s laugh sounded against her lips. The joy and eagerness of the moment. The way Christine gently cupped her face when they broke apart, like Raoul was the most precious thing in the world.

“You’ve never had a man, have you?” the ghost asks, though he doesn’t give her time to answer. “I thought not, which is one of the reasons I didn’t kill you in our little encounter before the curtain rose. I wanted you to see that you can never love her like I do. You aren’t…equipped for it. You don’t understand the music, you don’t understand her soul, and you don’t understand that you could never make her…”

Raoul shoves forward, cutting him off just as Christine gasps, but it doesn’t do any good, it only makes him angry, and he seizes both her hands, forcefully intertwining their fingers.

“Don’t talk about her like that again!” Raoul shouts, right in the ghost’s ear. “Stop _talking_ about her like that. Stop acting like I _lured her_ into my bed! Like that’s all this is about. I loved her before any of that happened, do you understand? She’s not a doll for you to use as you will.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” the ghost whispers, ignoring the proclamation. “This is the real end of Don Juan Triumphant. The epilogue to the libretto. I’ve had it arranged for months, so your little plan was always useless. You pushed me a touch off-script, just now, so let’s get back to it, shall we?”

“I suppose I should have just let you tie the rope around my neck?” Raoul asks, and her limbs are getting heavy now, heavy from the stress and swimming and the fighting and the exhaustion and she can’t be tired but she _is_. The blood loss surely isn’t helping.

Her skin burns beneath the rope, and she can’t do anything when the ghost’s hand goes to her cheek again. He runs his thumb across her lips in a mockery of gentleness before pressing down hard. “Shh. Quiet now. I need to speak to Christine about what’s to be done with you.”

He finally moves away from her and steps back toward Christine, who holds her ground.

“All right, my angel,” he says, softly, gently, but Raoul’s stomach plummets when she realizes what he’s going for.

The rope from earlier.

Christine reaches out for it, her hands and the ghost’s grasping it at the same time. She gives a tug, but only Erik tugs back, the rope slipping right through her fingers.

“Please,” Christine whispers, a sob breaking the world in half. “Please no.”

“It’s time for you to make your choice, Christine,” Erik says, walking straight back toward Raoul with the rope in hand. “Nothing can save this wretched girl’s life but you.”

Raoul starts shaking again and she wants to vomit, but no, no she has to be brave, she has to get Christine out but how can she…how can she…

The ghost reaches her, tossing the noose around her neck without mercy before securing the knot at the back and running the length of rope through the portcullis. Raoul nearly does vomit when he pulls on the end, tying the rest of it in a knot further down the grate, which only tightens the loop around her throat. She can get air, but only very, very little, and she tries to lift herself against her bonds to get a little more, but she can’t she can’t she can’t.

What is he asking what is he…

Oh no. She realizes what he’s going to do with a jolt.

Christine won’t choose the ghost on her own, so he wants to force Raoul to watch him make her. It’s the same reason he didn’t try to kill her in the box.

Everything is a performance.

She’s going to die. She’s going to die, and she has to be all right with it. She has to convince Christine to let her go.

Christine has to be free.

Raoul thinks of that little girl on the beach crying out, her chestnut curls blowing in the wind. She thinks of the shy, delighted _thank you_ as the nine-year-old version of herself retrieved a bright red scarf from the glittering waves. She thinks of whispering stories in the attic with glee as Gustave Daae laughed and played his violin.

Christine has to get out of here, not just because Raoul can’t bear to witness the opposite.

But because Christine deserves a chance to live.

As soon as the ghost speaks, she knows she’s right.

“Marry me,” the ghost says, spinning around toward Christine, who’s staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. “Or send your lover to her grave.” He stalks up toward her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward. “Say you love me and buy her freedom.” He leans in, and Christine stands, frozen. “This is the choice.” He keeps hold of Christine, but he turns back to Raoul with a smirk on his face. “ _This_ is the point of no return.” 

* * *

This exact moment was Christine’s worst fear.

She didn’t know how it might manifest—she only knew how she would feel. That hollowness in the pit of her stomach. The terror. The fear of impending loss before the loss even happened.

But even her nightmares didn’t conjure this. She assumed her teacher would simply kill Raoul, not leave the choice up to her.

He wanted Raoul to watch. He wanted to absolve himself of any responsibility.

If she makes the choice, then it’s her fault. Never his.

She pulls herself out of Erik’s grasp, taking a step back.

“I felt pity for you,” she says through clenched teeth. “I cried for you even after you hurt me. Lied to me. But…but…” the words build and build and build as her belief in her teacher shatters into a million shards of a mirror on the ground. “I _hate_ you.”

Erik’s entire body shudders and he doesn’t answer, he can’t seem to form words, he only stares at her and stares at her and stares at her and she wants to slap him, she wants to shake him. She wants to push him, and she needs to think but she can’t and how _dare_ he force this choice on her?

There is no choice, of course. There could never be a choice. No matter how much Raoul may beg her, she could never walk out of this lair past Raoul’s corpse. No. She’ll stay down here forever if it means Raoul lives.

“Christine…” Raoul tries, drawing Christine’s attention, the words coming out thin and hoarse as she gasps for the tiny bit of air she can get. “Christine don’t…”

“Do you see?” the ghost shouts before Raoul can finish, latching onto the opportunity, but he doesn’t really sound as if he believes his own words. “She’s already begging for her life. I told you, Christine. I told you she would. She doesn’t love you.”

“…don’t stay here,” Raoul finishes, giving a great cough as she speaks. “Don’t throw your life away to save mine. Please.”

Erik’s eyes widen.

She steps up to her teacher.

He steps back.

“Don’t ask me for pity, Christine, it’s too late,” he says, and the words are edging toward a snarl, his rage building back up again. “This is the choice—end your days with me, or she dies. No one can help you. No one but you can decide.”

“I trusted you.” Christine balls her hands into fists, the words sharp and unforgiving. “You taught me, you said you wanted to _protect_ me, and I idolized you.” She rips the veil off her head, tossing it to the ground. “Who deserves to be put through this, Erik? Who?”

Erik raises a hand, jabbing a finger in her direction and shaking his head. “You betrayed me, Christine. You…” he absolutely stumbles over the words, for the first time in her memory. “This girl, she tricked you. Everything was fine until she came along.”

“ _You_ tricked me!” Christine screams the words, and she’s crying and she feels like she’s going to be sick and she needs to calm down she needs to get him to change his mind but what if she can’t? If she can’t she has to stay, and she’ll stay for Raoul, she’ll stay, but she doesn’t know that he won’t kill Raoul anyway and she can’t have that, she can’t see that, she can’t. “I gave you my mind blindly and you took my voice like it was yours, and you lied to me, you deceived me and made me think my father sent you, when he was all I had in the world.”

Erik doesn’t say anything for a second time, which gives Raoul another chance.

“Why make her lie to you?” Raoul asks. “To save me? Let her go, just…”

“Quiet, girl.” Erik cuts Raoul off but he sounds strange, almost…upset, like things aren’t going like he planned, like he expected one of them to betray the other, like that was already written in the script inside his mind. He looks at her again, his eyes wild and his breaths shallow. Rapid, even if he’s not the one in the noose. “Her life is the prize, Christine. You have to earn it.”

“Christine,” Raoul tries again, and she’s gasping for air, Christine can hear it. “Christine I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…I’m…” she gasps again and her voice breaks. “Please, just let me go.”

_Let me go._

Christine’s transported back to the day her father died. To the way he coughed. To the way sweat soaked the sheets. To the way her hands shook as she held his.

To the way he said, _you can let me go, älskling._

Thoughts of Raoul dying crash together with thoughts of never seeing Raoul again, of being stuck in this prison and knowing Raoul will come back again and again, that she’ll never give up. And then she’ll die anyway, won’t she? Erik will kill Raoul if she refuses to leave after he lets her go. Christine’s minds feels like it’s _melting_. Her soul throbs and her heart breaks and she….

Before she thinks, before Erik can even react, she runs over to Raoul.

She puts her hands on Raoul’s face, for one, fleeting moment, and Raoul’s desperate for more air, she’s wheezing and choking but the rope is too tight too slip off, it’s too _tight_.

“My sweet, brave darling,” Christine says, her words broken up by sobs. “Let me help, you let me…”

“Christine,” Raoul interrupts, barely audible. “Go to Phillipe and Juliette, they’ll take care of you, I swear they’ll take care of you.” Tears stream down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat. “I love you. I love you.”

Christine reaches for the knot at the back, but she doesn’t know how to loosen it, maybe she can loosen the one tied around the portcullis, maybe she can…

Before she can even reach for it there’s a pair of arms seizing her around the waist and pulling her back and she says _I love you Raoul_ but it’s gets lost in a scream and she’s not sure if Raoul heard her. Erik comes to a halt, pulling her close to him and grasping her wrist once more. He’s breathing hard and he’s angry but he’s something else, too. Something…

She’s not sure she could name it. Something anguished. Something haunted.

“You try…” he says, meeting her eyes as he swallows back a crack in his voice. “…my patience.” He pauses, the next words a low, deep growl, the furthest thing from the smooth silk she’s become accustomed to. “Make your _choice_.”

He releases her like he perhaps can’t bear to touch her, storming back over to Raoul and giving one last tug on the noose, which makes Raoul cough again, giving a hoarse, muffled shout of pain. Erik moves away from the portcullis and comes back to stand in front of Christine, though he turns his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest.

Christine looks at Raoul. She looks behind her at Erik’s reflection in the mirror by the portcullis.

There’s silence.

A thousand years pass between the seconds.

She has to stay here. She has to stay here and she has to convince Erik she’ll stay. She needs to convince him enough that he’ll actually let Raoul go.

She has to make sure Raoul actually leaves, though how, she’s not sure.

She has to. She has to, because Raoul can’t die here, in this place. Not like this. Raoul is a shooting star, streaking light across the darkness. Christine’s darkness. And Christine will not let her die at the end of a rope in this terrible place, crying out for Christine to let her.

She thinks of what happened during Don Juan. She hears Erik’s voice in her head.

_Kiss me._

There’s so much pain, in this room. Raoul’s. Hers. Erik’s. And there’s no way for all of them to be happy.

Either way she chooses, Erik wins, and she’d rather him win her, than win over Raoul’s dead body.

She steps a little closer, and she speaks to her teacher.

“I can only imagine what you’ve been through,” she says softly, but Erik still doesn’t turn around to face her. “But I do know what it’s like to feel lonely. And I…” she sniffs, and she’s crying for Raoul, for herself, and for the teacher who turned into a monster.

She needs to find a way to reach the man. The man who spoke to her in the darkness as she sat on the stage late one night crying over her father. The man who once, maybe, wanted to help her. That’s man’s betrayed her since and lied to her from the start, and she’s not sure if forgiveness will ever come, but he gave her voice it’s wings, and she has to try to find him.

She hopes he existed, and that not everything was a lie.

“I…” she continues, real sympathy flooding her veins and mixing with the rawness. “I’m sorry, Erik. For everything that’s happened to you. It shouldn’t have.” She walks forward, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning him around. “I’ll stay with you.”

He stares at her and he looks almost like a child, so she puts her hands on either side of his face, and she kisses him. It’s soft and it’s gentle and it’s quick and he doesn’t kiss her back. He doesn’t even touch her. She breaks the kiss and he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look at her.

He only looks in the mirror several feet away, his eyes wide.

Raoul gasps for air in the quiet, and then, she doesn’t gasp again.

Christine falls to her knees. She falls to her knees at the feet of this man who was everything, and who now threatens to take everything from her. Who threatens to bludgeon her with the weapon he used against her in the first place.

Grief. 

“Please, angel.” She swore she would never call him that again. She promised herself, but now, she’ll do whatever she has to. She grasps his trousers and she _cries_ , and she listens for the sound of Raoul’s breath but there is none and she can’t look, she can’t turn and see if Raoul’s already dead. “ _Please_. I will stay with you forever if you just let her go. I’ll sing your music. I will do my best to love you like a wife should.”

A pause.

Silence.

She glances up, and he’s still looking in the mirror. Staring.

He tears himself away and then he’s squatting down in front of her and tilting up her chin, and are those…yes, those are tears streaming down _his_ face, too.

“Please,” Christine repeats, a sob pushing past her lips as she meets his gaze, though he doesn’t force it. The touch is…gentle. And she doesn’t know what it means, yet. “ _Please_ let her go, I beg of you.”

Erik’s _shaking_.

He pauses for a long moment, but there isn’t time, there isn’t _time_ for that, and she’s so focused on wishing he would let Raoul down that she jumps when he presses a kiss to her forehead before releasing her.

He walks over to the portcullis, and Christine has to look then, and Raoul is breathing, but they’re small, shallow breaths, her eyes barely open.

Christine jumps up, because she’s still not sure what Erik is doing, another broken, desperate _please_ escaping her.

Erik looks at Raoul, he _really_ looks at her, exhaling a long, shuddering breath before he undoes the knot at the back of the noose, slipping it off her neck. Raoul coughs and then takes a gulp of air, her eyes flying open where they were half-closed before as she sped toward unconsciousness. Erik takes out his knife again and Raoul pulls back like a wounded animal, even if there’s nowhere to go.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Erik says, and he almost, nearly, sounds like the man Christine first heard that fateful night.

He cuts through the ropes binding Raoul’s wrists, then squats down to remove the ones around her ankles. Raoul collapses immediately, and Erik, not quite out of the way, half catches her, sliding her onto the floor before stepping quickly back. Raoul coughs again, a hoarse, delirious half-scream pouring out of her mouth.

Erik jolts, and he keeps staring at Raoul, staring at her like he’s seeing her for what she is for the first time.

A twenty-one-year-old girl.

Christine’s heart breaks.

And she runs.

She slides to her knees in the wedding dress, cradling Raoul’s face with one hand. God, how can Raoul even get out of here, in this state? “Raoul, my love,” she whispers. “Can you hear me?”

Raoul blinks, her eyes opening just a crack. “Christine? Christine, you can’t…you can’t stay here.”

“Neither of you is staying here.”

Erik speaks with his back to them, sounding vaguely more in control than before. Like a man, rather than a monster.

The ghost is gone.

Christine looks up. “Do you mean…”

“I mean you can go!” Erik shouts, but it’s not anger, exactly. It’s anguish. Guilt. “Forget me. Forget this.”

Christine knows she never will. A rush of relief floods through her, but there’s barely any time to process, there’s barely any time to understand, because she’s scared still, scared Raoul won’t make it, scared Erik will change his mind, but even the idea that she can go, that she can be free, makes her feel _strong_.

“Erik…”

“Take her and go, Christine.” His voice shakes, and it doesn’t sound otherworldly, anymore. “Take the boat.” He pauses, and there’s the sound of voices echoing from a distance.

Someone’s coming. A group of people. Though they don’t sound like they’re coming from the same direction across the lake. There might be another way down here, a longer way, she supposes.

“They’re coming for me, you need to go,” Erik says, and it’s strange how normal he sounds. “Go, now.”

He pulls the lever and opens the portcullis before turning his back on them again and staring in the mirror. He can’t seem to stop doing it.

“Raoul…” Christine speaks with gentle urgency, adrenaline rushing through her. “Can you stand?”

Raoul nods, and Christine puts an arm around her waist to help her, but as soon as she’s on her feet to falls to the ground again.

“I can’t…” Raoul coughs and a little blood comes with it before she takes a great gulp of air. “My ankle is sprained or….I’m sorry, let me try…”

She tries again, but before she’s even halfway up her knees buckle. Christine catches her, but the difference in their heights makes it awkward, and Raoul cries out again in pain, the sound echoing through the cavern as Christine lowers her to the floor as gently as possible.

“Raoul…” Christine says, and she’s crying, she can’t _stop_ crying, but she has to get Raoul out of here, she has to. “Raoul, my sweetheart just….let’s rest a moment, let’s…”

“Leave me,” Raoul mutters. “Leave me and go, Christine, please.”

“No.” Christine bites her lip against another sob, swallowing it back. “Never. You would never leave me. You haven’t left me this whole time. Let me help you, all right? Just let me help you.”

Raoul nods, her face white and devoid of color.

Christine turns at the sound of another sob, and it’s not hers. It’s not Raoul’s.

It’s Erik’s.

He’s still looking in the mirror, he’s staring at himself like he’s never seen his face before, like he doesn’t know who he is, and he winces as Raoul tries getting up again, another cry of pain echoing through the lair. Christine does get her sitting up, but they can’t go any further and she has to get out of here. She has to.

Erik turns away from the mirror, and looks at them.

“Christine,” he says, his voice rent in half, his eyes traveling over Raoul’s wounds. “Christine…oh god, I…”

“Erik,” Christine tries. Softly. Gently, no matter her anguish and her rage. “Please, I need your help. I..” she sticks out her chin and looks her teacher in the eye. “If you’re sorry, I need you to help me.” She holds Raoul against her as close as she dares with all the wounds, because she doesn’t trust him. How could she, whatever is happening now? “I can’t get her in the boat by myself.”

He doesn’t answer, at first. He just stares at her, his eyes red from crying. When he does speak, it’s only two words, and suddenly, she’s the one with the power.

“All right.”

He comes up behind Raoul, who absolutely jumps out of her skin when he puts his hands on her.

“No,” Raoul pleads, her voice hoarse and broken. “Please no.”

“It’s all right.” Christine blinks, more tears streaming down her face. “We’re just getting you to the boat. I promise. I promise you.”

Raoul nods, but she’s trembling as Christine and Erik lift her up, carrying her the short distance to the little dock where the boat’s tied up. Erik takes over once they reach it, laying Raoul down with an astonishing amount of care. He steps away immediately, looking at Raoul for a long minute.

Then, he looks at Christine.

“I…” he searches her face, and he looks lost, a far cry from the enraged, violent man of only a few minutes ago.

The shouts of the mob grow closer.

“I…” Erik says again, and Christine feels her impatience grow.

“Erik, please.” She looks back at Raoul, in the boat. “I have to get her out of here.”

Finally, Erik reaches into his pocket, pulling something out.

The necklace Raoul gave her. The one he taunted her with earlier.

He takes her hand, and she does what she can to stifle the jolt that goes through her whole body, but it doesn’t really work. He places the necklace in her palm, then draws away.

“That’s yours,” he says, looking at the ground now, and not at her. “You should have it.”

Christine puts the treasured thing, this thing she only had for a few hours before she lost it, around her neck, just as Erik brings out something else from the inside of his coat.

His hands shake as he speaks. “This is a song. A melody I wrote a long time ago, for you.”

He holds it out, but Christine doesn’t reach back. She doesn’t know how to reach back. He’s done so much wrong to her, but he almost killed Raoul. He almost _killed_ her, and despite all the sympathy in her heart, despite the pain of losing the man she thought he was, no matter that he’s letting them go now, she’s not ready to forgive him. She might not ever be.

“Just take it,” he says, a little sharply. “Open it, or not. And I…” he stumbles over the words again, and it’s still so odd to hear. “I’m sorry I hurt the girl.”

 _Which girl?_ Christine almost snaps.

She snatches the paper instead, pulling her hand back immediately. “Hurt her? Erik you…” she blinks, more tears spilling from her eyes as she lowers her voice. “You’ve nearly killed her. I have to go. Now. She needs a doctor.”

Erik runs a hand over his face. “Go. Go before it’s too late.”

The _too late_ could be about so many things. The mob. Raoul’s very life. Perhaps even before he changes his mind, and makes her stay.

She does something she can’t explain then. Half of her hates this man, and she’ll have nightmares about this night for the rest of her life.

But she sees the tragedy in front of her, too. She sees the man who taught her how to sing, and she knows that here, now, she has to let him go. Not Raoul. Him.

So she reaches out, grasping the edges of his fingers for a brief, fleeting moment before taking her hand back. She picks up the oar and unties the little boat that brought her down to this place months ago, except this time, she’s steering it herself.

She’s going to get them out of here.

The mob draws closer. She hears them, though she feels sure Erik will find his own way out.

She only hopes he doesn’t change his mind, and come haunting them. 

Just as the boat moves away, there’s a voice behind her.

A voice she knows, except her soul isn’t tangled up with it, now. It hurts. The loss hurts, but she feels free, too. Finally free.

“Christine,” Erik says, the words half a song. “I love you. I love you.”

She glances back, and she can’t say anything. She doesn’t know what she would say, if she could even conjure up the words. She just looks at her teacher for a long, heartbreaking moment, and she keeps rowing.

She keeps rowing even as Erik’s sobs echo through the home he’s built for himself.

She keeps rowing even though she wants to lay down and cry and cry and cry.

She keeps rowing, and she looks down at Raoul.

Raoul’s white shirt is stained red from the knife wound, the skin on her wrists broken open. There’s blood on her lips and her face, a bruise already blooming on her cheek. Worst of all, there’s her neck, the skin mottled and bloody and bruised and it breaks Christine’s heart into a million pieces.

All of this, for her. For her freedom. Her happiness.

Raoul is still her hero. Raoul will always be her hero.

Right now, she’s determined to be Raoul’s, too.

“Christine,” Raoul mutters. “Christine I’m sorry.”

Christine removes one hand from the oar as the boat glides along the lake, leaning down and running her knuckles down Raoul’s cheek.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my love,” she whispers. “I’m getting us out of here, and I’ll take care of you. Just hold on for me, all right?”

Raoul nods before shutting her eyes again, and Christine looks down every few seconds to make sure she’s still breathing.

She rows and she rows and she rows, bringing them both back up to the world.

And to the light.

**Author's Note:**

> There are several chapters planned after this, so don't worry, we still have a bit to go!
> 
> Also älskling means "darling" in Swedish, if you were curious!


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